The Witch's Cat
by Wingedteen
Summary: Merlin has seen death. He has watched it with golden eyes, seen it trail paths of sadness and sorrow and a hollow, empty kind of madness that ebbs and flows like a rippling wave. Sometimes he thinks that maybe, it's not death at all. It's loss.


**Remember that tempoary insanity that I pleaded? Uh, yeah, not so tempoary. This obsession with the Merlin fandom is sticking around, folks.**

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Merlin has seen death. He has watched it with golden eyes- has seen it glide, unseen and unfelt, but leaving an undeniable mark on everything it almost-touches. It trails paths of sadness and sorrow and a hollow, empty kind of madness that ebbs and flows like a rippling wave. Sometimes he thinks that maybe, it's not death at all. It's _loss_.

There's tension, thick and almost tangible, weighing down the very air that Merlin breathes. He watches Death sweep from escaping soul to escaping soul, breathing in the lost spirits that have been freed from their fleshy cages, collecting them deep in his chest like children to their mother's bosom. Merlin's eyes stay golden as he watches, unblinking, the remains of the battle still smeared over the land, and his body. The remaining knights drag weary limbs and heavy, armoured bodies towards their king, who stands opposite Merlin on the battlefield. Arthur's head is lowered, but Merlin knows those piercing eyes are watching him from beneath sweat soaked bangs.

The knights turn to look at Merlin, who hasn't moved since the battle ended. They wonder with tired, detached thoughts, what the sorcerer is doing. Probably saving his own skin, untouched by wounds of the flesh and the rush of battle.

The king knows what they are thinking, can see it in the angry tilt of their heads, can read his subjects _that well_.

He also knows they're wrong.

Every time they win a battle, fight a war, Merlin stands at the sidelines, watching something with his magic swirling just beneath his skin, eyes golden and fierce trained on something only Merlin can see. Merlin reminds Arthur of a cat, in these moments, a witch's cat of midnight fur and amber eyes, watching ghosts and unintentionally mocking those that can't. He sees the abstract fear, the terror that this unseen thing evokes in the strongest of sorcerers, and eventually, watches it turn into detached acceptance. That dull-edged acceptance, limp, like the fight has been drained right out of Merlin's body, scares Arthur more than the fear still lingering in his face.

Merlin can still see him, he, it, _death_ lingering around the centre of the fallen mass of bloody, earthly vessels. For a second, its shape is clearer, the defined line of a hood sweeping low over someone's face. It looks up, and Merlin's eye catches on something that could have been this unearthly being's gaze, but the connection is broken too quickly and yet not fast enough. Something cold settles in his chest, and the air feels like gluggy water, clinging to his limbs and slipping under his skin. It feels like magic, yet not, not like Merlin's magic- fierce and golden, crackling and rippling with the will to protect and preserve and _deny, _wether the accuser is a king or a sorcerer or maybe even, sometimes, death itself_. _

He feels colder still when he realises that the roiling black mist is making its way towards him, spreading tendrils like thin seekers, drifting over to stroke at the faces of the deceased. It gets closer, and Merlin can feel it, feel the years piling up, feel the tightness of sickness, feel his breath rattling in his lungs like it will be his last. But his magic remains the same, licking the walls of his soul like a friendly, amused flame, and it chases away the cold seeping into his old-feeling bones.

The hood tilts up, a little, and Merlin can feel the question in the air, swirling between them. _Who_.

_Merlin_. He says, but not with words, with his magic, golden tendrils extending to curl around the other's, the gold and black twirling and twisting around each other like curious puppies sniffing at a new discovery.

_No_. He feels it, the reply, and blinks in shock. _Emrys_.

He nods, because that seems to be his most recognized name among unearthly creatures, and can _feel_ the smile, like a burst of warmth. The black tendrils are almost affectionate now.

_You know? _It says.

_Yes_. He replies, letting out a breath in a world-weary sigh.

_Will you stop me?_

He knows he will, he'll fight it any way he knows how, can feel his magic rear up at the very _suggestion_.

The responding warmth is more like a chuckle.

The black hood turns, at what would be an awkward angle, to face Arthur.

Merlin is running before he can even see the arrow, shot from a dying man's crossbow and hurtling towards his king.

His magic is exhausted, slow to react, like a snake caught in the cold, and the crossbow is a weapon of sorcery. It aids the projectile, even through Merlin's instinctive time-slowing, and he realises with a start that is charged with a dying man's Last Wish. Everything feels out of his control.

The arrow pierces Arthur's armour like it is thin parchment, driving deep into his flesh. Merlin finally reaches him just as the surprise is starting to cross his face. He was shot from behind- never saw it coming or had a chance of defending himself.

Merlin falls to his knees beside his collapsed king, pressing shaking hands to Arthur's stuttering chest. Time snaps back to normal, like releasing a band after it's been stretched too tight. Words slip from Merlin's lips- words of the Old Religion, ancient words meant to heal but slurring together in a mess of profanities and pleas. The knights stand, stunned into silence and confused by the rapid chain of events.

Merlin can feel death, standing behind him, ready to collect the soul of the most important man in history. Merlin doesn't care whether the king falls a hundred times; _no_ _one_ can ever have Arthur's soul.

Death pities him, Merlin can feel it in the black tendrils that settle around his heels.

He soaks up all his magic, all that is left, all that he has ever had in his life, his magic, that exists for this sole reason, and collects it in the palms of his hands, presses it into a fine layer just beneath his skin, until his eyes start to burn a bright, blinding white, and his skin feels like it's being scrubbed away harshly, one layer at a time.

The wound has already healed, but Arthur's soul has slipped out. It writhes above his body, playful and witty and warm like the man himself, and Merlin reaches out with tentative fingers to cup it in his hands. It feels wrong to trap something so free and wild, but he does, and cradles it to his chest. He can feel Arthur hum between his fingers.

Death chuckles again, but the warmth is nothing compared to the feel of Arthur's soul, clinging to his fingers and rubbing against them like a purring kitten.

_His body will be born again._

_I know. _

_It must have a soul._

_I know._

_You will be there?_

_I will._


End file.
